


The Vial Consort

by d00biusc0nsent



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Come Sharing, Dom/sub, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Sitting, Hair Brushing, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Light BDSM, Magical Tattoos, Mild Blood, Pegging, Smoking, Submissive Kylo Ren, Witchcraft, domme reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d00biusc0nsent/pseuds/d00biusc0nsent
Summary: Kylo Ren seeks you out, a consort of noble birth and hidden talent. You know just what a submissive boy like him needs, for now, and later.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 95





	The Vial Consort

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you can't rest in a post-TROS world until you've given Ben Solo the way out via dark magic he deserves. Especially if that includes the fucking of a lifetime he certainly also deserves. The manic, soft-Domme energy I need to get out after witnessing that conclusion is palpable. This was definitely written just for me as a oneshot, but I hope others can enjoy it! Leave a comment if you can! And Merry XXXmas I guess??

You’ve heard so much about the Supreme Leader’s impatience. And yet here he is, keeping your long-awaited appointment. You had considered rushing him in, because, why wouldn’t a noble consort want to invite that power into her life as quickly as possible?

He doesn't fail the first step of your test. He’s even tolerating your attendants as they politely force him to remove his boots before entering your quarters. Waiting the three months for an audience with you is apparently acceptable, but not a moment more. What a ridiculous man.

You set aside your mortar and pestle and remove a kettle from the fire, leaving your desk to greet your newest client. But not before double-checking a few different pages from a tome and taking a deep breath of air.

Lounging on your bed, you appear to have been here always. You open the door with the press of a button.

“Grand Consort,” he greets you as the door hisses shut at his back. You wait behind your veil, smiling. “I hope you’re worth the wait,” he goes on, extending what appears to be a gift.

You lazily motion for your attendants to retrieve the package, the smallest of bells jingling at your wrist. “Open it,” you command them, barely sitting up from your impressive collection of overstuffed cushions.

His mask hides any potential dejection, but you see it in his shoulders, nonetheless. You breathe in a great puff of smoke as you consider the offering, feeling your limbs and lids leaden.

“Supreme Leader, I’m charmed by such a gift.” Your words billow with clouds through your smile as you motion again, for the object to be taken away. “And your punctuality. I don’t blame you for being eager, I’m booked for a reason, Master Ren-”

“Not here!” he raises his voice, vocoder popping from the strain. “Just call me,” he hesitates, for far too long, before disengaging the latches of his helmet and peeling it off in a well-practiced swoop. “Kylo is suitable."

“Forgive me, Kylo, I didn’t realize we’d already started. I was still addressing my Supreme Leader.” You match his muscle memory, ascending from your cushions by one of the sloped onyx posts of your bed, turning into him with welcoming body language. “Yes, I read your file before you arrived.” You lean in to whisper in his ear, brushing away a spiraling lock. “You’re safe with me here, Kylo, as your true self. I won’t let you leave unsated; I promise you.”

His heart is thrumming, you can hear it in his breathing, rapid and shallow already. His body reacts to every glance of silk as you circle him, taking in his body with your eyes for the first time in person.

"Here, I’m your Master.” His expression is melting from stern to relaxed, which you take a moment to appreciate. “Tell me you belong to me now, Kylo.”

He just nods, struggling with words.

With practiced control, your gloved hand is clamped around his throat, cutting off the incense heavy air. It’s difficult to ignore the vicious scar across his face as you examine him so closely.

“Do I need to punish you already, little boy?” you warn before letting him breathe.

“I want what you want, my Master,” he confesses, starting to roll with your punches. “All of me is yours.”

You bounce your eyebrows at this clearly starved man, so much more obliged to give him what he needs than you typically do when someone strolls in with their problems for your body to solve.

“I want you out of those clothes. Strip for me.” You dismiss the others in the room with a motion and dim the lights a fraction. Curtains part to reveal mirrors all around the room.

With a shred of confidence gained but tremors in his hands, he makes eye contact with you for a fraction of an instant, removing his gloves.

You stand by your bedding, idly toying with a stray tassel as you watch the most powerful man in the galaxy go to shambles in your presence. His hands are marbled with veins; you find that divot in your lip from earlier and worry it, watching those hands unpin his cloak and unbutton his tunic, working through his layers.

His gallery of scars expands before you, your eyes darting from memory to memory etched in his flesh. Every corner of his body blushes in the dim, rosy light, the cracks and craters from war exaggerated in the heavy shadows like any planet his regime had brought to ruin.

"Your fortune has come at some costs,” you state the obvious, taking another drag from the long stem of your pipe.

“What do you require of me?” he changes gears, keeping his head down but standing straight.

“I require you to get on your knees,” you snap. “Don’t ask questions.”

“Yes, Master.” He obeys

“That’s a good boy. Keep them apart, or I’ll slap them apart.”

“Yes, Master,” he goes on, cock twitching between his thighs at the threat.

A gasp slips from his lips as you push his knees to expose him further. His hands fidget, unsure of where to go. You decide to give them a purpose.

“Pinch your nipples for me, please,” you ask with a sprinkling of sugar.

He complies immediately, clamping them until his skin whitens, sucking at his teeth at the pain.

“Good,” you whisper, circling him again, stroking across those corded shoulders with your fingertips. As you turn, he steals glances of your body in the reflections. You catch his jaw in your hand and force him to look at his own instead. His eyes lose their sparkle. Those matte chocolate eyes break a piece of your heart you’d thought you’d kept well protected, and so you tilt his face for his eyes to meet your own. “I’d like to blindfold you. Would you like that?”

“I wouldn’t,” he confesses, flat.

“You didn’t mark it as a hard limit in your file. You also told me that you wanted to detach from your surroundings, and this would help achieve that.”

“Fuck no.”

You narrow your gaze.

“Fuck no thank you, Master.”

The fake confidence of his fades as your face parts for a wide smile. “Are you trying to steal my trade secrets, little boy?”

“It’s more that I’m wary of them. I don’t trust you, but I need you.” He still hasn’t broken your locked stare. “Master.”

“I think you’d do quite well as a consort if you’re truly moonlighting. Are you leaving it all behind for a simpler life? It’s sweet that you came to me first for guidance. You've already accomplished one of the more difficult steps," you lace the jest with genuine observation, waving your hand through the air and sensing his umbilical to the Force all around you.

“You’re as funny as all of the other Masters I’ve had.”

“So, you didn’t come to me first. This is heartbreaking, how could you?”

He’s shaking from more than the cold.

“You’re welcome to study what my sect of this profession has done with a raggedy old book if you like, Kylo,” you tease, opening your robes, a layer at a time until your front is entirely exposed.

That sparkle returns to his eyes as he studies the ink decorating your whole being. You take his hand and place his palm over the curve of your bare hip, an energy rippling from where your skin meets in cool waves, washing over his face, in awe of your body glowing like a bioluminescent creature of the deep.

Captivated, he asks, “how was this accomplished?”

Pulling him back by the hair, you answer, “I said you can study it, but I’m not here to teach you how to do this. You’ve not paid for that, I’m afraid, bad boy. Just how to feel it, and I’m not sure if you even deserve that at this point.”

“You’re right.”

You’re floored.

“I’m serious,” he continues, chewing at the interior of his lips, “now that I’ve seen it, felt it. Continue, Master. Though I ask that you don’t blindfold me.”

“Alright.”

Eager to move on, you remove your gloves and pull a brush from a pocket, situating yourself behind him. You start at the ends of his hair, detangling one knot at a time. Between strokes, your bare fingers run along his angles and curves, bathing him in the pleasurable sensation of meeting your tattoos. He moans and leans into your touch, body breaking out in goose flesh. With each hair in line, you smooth and tie it back, watching the bulb of his cock seep pre-cum down his thigh already. His hands hover near, struggling not to touch himself.

“Look at you, trying so hard to be my good boy,” you whisper by his ear, pinching at one of his long-abandoned nipples when his eyes are shut. The noise that escapes him can only be described as cute.

“I am,” he replies absently, lost in the little tastes of euphoria.

"Yes, look I said," you correct his line of sight by the ponytail. "You either watch or you take the blindfold. Those are your only options right now."

Muscles twitch below his left eye. His pulse is quick but steady in your two fingers planted over his windpipe. It skyrockets as he chooses to take in his own visage, hands reaching instantly for his face. You catch his wrists. He pulls against your grip, and again when he fails to break free. The gears keep turning and he looks to you for answers.

"This ink runs deeper than you'd think. Its utility isn't just for my patrons' benefit. It protects me." You bend his arms behind his back, clasping cuffs around his wrists. "There. No more temptation." His face is blank. "You want to speak. Say what's on your mind, Kylo."

"How is it that you, a glorified prostitute, have stumbled into all of these shortcuts to greatness?"

You take the time to put yourself in front of him, squaring your shoulders.

The sound pings from mirror to mirror, shrill and sudden, skin connecting skin. Sanguine drops spatter across the marble in a streak. He sucks in a breath and spits a mouthful of blood to his side, tonguing at the rupture in his bottom lip as he looks up at you. Crooked teeth outlined in red peek through a smirk.

Your hand is still open and already swelling. "I'd like to see you go through what I did for these shortcuts, boy." You crouch down to his level. "I mean that sincerely. I'm curious to see if someone might survive it this cycle." He doesn't flinch as you run your index finger over his lips, painting them from the wound. "My temple gets very lonely." You bring it to your mouth and exaggerate the act of licking it away, giving him a good view of the flat of your tongue, just as intricately filigreed as your fingers. Your runes and shapes shimmer as his life enters your own.

There it is-- the hungry soul finally joining his body at your table.

You pull a lace handkerchief from your robes to dab away the mess from his chin before tucking it away. For the first time since you've met, his shoulders and diaphragm fully relax. His Adam's apple quivers and you wonder if there will be tears. He keeps it together, visibly swallowing his surge of emotion.

Standing, you pull him into your robes, into you, cradling the back of his head as you press his cheek against your thigh, caressing his hair, as soft as your expensive silks. "You've been smart enough to realize that you want my pain, but not smart enough to know you need my pleasure more." He nuzzles close to your panties, mistaking your comment as an invitation. You can't help but be charmed by this mistreated dumbass, smiling as you roll your eyes and pull him away by the hair yet again. "If you're good for me, I'll let you taste my cunt before you leave me tonight." His breath is warm and far more tempting than you'd ever admit. "Ask me to use you."

"Master, please use me however you'd like."

"I shall. Now thank me."

"Master, thank you."

You want to sink your teeth into those plumping lips and taste him some more. So, you do. He puts in most of the effort, straining to touch you like a flower to a sun. Stepping backwards, you urge him to follow. He does so, tumbling forward. He catches most of his fall with his own unique abilities, but it doesn't spare him from the ass-up, face-down position he's now in. He groans, doing his best to keep pressure from his mouth.

"Stay right there," you command, drawing a delicate tool from a drawer below your mattress. You see the mixed reaction all over his face. "A compromise between what you want and what you need, little boy?" Directing the flow of the falls over the curve of his ass and back, you let him feel just how supple they are, how kind. "I see you followed my instructions today. I hope you haven't had your plug in for too long."

You give him a practice swipe. His body tightens until it lands, though he melts right into trusting you with the suede flogger. Rewarding him, you drag the suede over all his most delicate parts. This is also for you, to take a moment to admire what so many people must wonder about and filled to the brim with a gift from yourself no less. Your eyes flick back to his in the mirror as you give him another thwack, catching his balls enough to make him gasp.

"You're so swollen," you tease him, bringing his cock towards you with the handle, keeping him in this purgatory for a bit too long. "Which part of my body would you prefer me to fuck that thing with, if you were lucky enough to get to choose?" As he mulls it over, you pull a ribbon from another pocket, tying him up neatly, stem and root. The more he thinks, the more it throbs helplessly between his thighs.

"Your pussy, Master."

"Why's that?"

"I want you to come too."

"Too?"

"I want you to use my cock to come, please, oh please," he pathway corrects.

You reply with a swat to the perineum. "We'll see."

After a few more strikes with the flogger, you rake your nails over the light pink latticework, praises trickling under your breath. Instructing him to stand, you offer your leg to steady himself, though he rises on his own, furrowing his brow as his knees bend.

You remove his cuffs afterward. There's that twitch under that eye again. It takes some tactical positioning in a room of mirrors to hide your grin.

Crouching, you palm his knees and dull the pain in his joints with your radiating pleasure, taking care to draw invisible runes with your fingers. You massage up and down his hamstrings, your lips just out of his reach.

You take him by his ribbon and lead him to your bed, motioning for him to crawl towards his reflection on the wall. Straddling his back, the cuffs return to his wrists. You have him hooked to a chain beneath your mattress before he can react. Pillows are piled beneath the curve of his hips, keeping him in that vulnerable state. Skilled hands work over muscles, shoulders to legs. As you finish with his feet, he's a puddle of clay.

Heart rates elevate with each kiss you sprinkle over the curve of his ass cheeks. You make a show of fanning your tongue over his tail bone and the ornate handle of the plug, your initials engraved in between the bobbles, teasing the ring of muscle where it meets the toy. While he's relaxed, you slip it out and place it on your nightstand, shushing away his alarm.

You're lowering yourself and pressing him open wide, exploring with the tip of your tongue until his body gives in to your intrusion. Chain links rattle across the foundation of your bed, pulled taut by surprised hands; you smooth your own over his body, urging him to relax around you as you lick in strong half-circles, switching your angle constantly. You hear sheets straining in his grip as you dip low enough to suck a testicle into your mouth-- or, as much of one as you can manage before trying the other. He bucks against your middle finger, wriggling in place of your tongue, gradually building up a pace. Sloppy lips slide down his shaft once, and then twice, and no more, though it's all it takes to get his legs to spread further on their own. Lifting your face, you give him a shining smile, plunging a second finger into his ass, stretching him with a scissor motion.

"You're so greedy for a third finger, slutty boy. Have you been 'practicing' for me more often than I requested?"

He nods, gnawing at his lip and thrusting his prick into the pillows for the pressure. "Yes, Master."

You add the third finger and plunge in and out, building him up for something more, laser focusing on his sweet spot. Leaning over, you retrieve a glass pot, pouring it generously over his backside and your fingers, twisting them deep to shallow until his inner walls are as sopping in oil as his bound cock.

You flip him over as though he's as inconsequential as one of your throw pillows, descending on him with practiced aim after propping him up comfortably.

"Fuck!" he bellows, tossing his head side to side, obviously trying not to spill inside of you.

"Don't you dare," you warn, putting your weight on his chest to better control the slow work you had planned on.

Too late.

Your tattoos flare with each frantic spasm of his cock, pumping you with wave after wave of cum. He continues a string of curses, not taking his failure lightly judging by the glassy sheen in his eyes.

"Master," is all he says, begging with your title alone.

"I can fix your mess, little boy, but it won't feel good for you." With dexterous fingers, you draw a symbol into his abdomen, watching his grimace with delight as his erection engorges more rigid than before. He sucks in breaths, taking the overstimulation like a good little submissive toy. You grind your g-spot over the head, your clit against the curve of his pelvis, holding yourself steady with a hand around his throat. His head tilts back, welcoming your new dominion over his body.

Maker, his cock feels so fucking good to bounce on. You're trembling more quickly than usual, already at the mercy of an orgasm. You don't want to question it but you have to, you know your body far too well. It's too good. You blink through the haze of pleasure to observe your boy's face, mouthing words of concentration and rolling his tongue in motions you can feel as well as see.

You pin him further into the stack of cushions with your choking hand, the V clamped firmly around his windpipe to restrict nearly all of his air. "No." This cuts his focus. "I'm fucking you right now. Let go."

He surrenders.

Thoughts swirl together with sensations, all information passing through a filter of bliss. The lewd, wet smacking between you is up to a reckless pace, and every breath you take is thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and cum, his and yours both. He's gazing up at you like you're the only star in the sky again, building up the courage to speak with broken lips.

"Master, may I come with you?"

"If you do, I'm spanking your balls with that hairbrush like I had wanted and sending you to your ship on all fours. Blindfolded. And if you come back, I'm taking all of your lunch money next time you come knocking." Heavy dimples line his face in the first true smile you've seen. "That means don't do it, you stupid slut," you chastise, play slapping at his grin.

"Yes, I promise not to," he swears, continuing to meet your rolling hips. "Please don't stop using me like, mm," he trails off, sliding in and out of subspace.

He doesn't have to ask. Undoing his cuffs once more, you demand he put his hands to work on your clit. It's clumsy, but you're so electrified that every awkward glance is pure ecstasy. You reopen his lip with a sharp kiss, devouring him all at once.

"Fuck, Ben," you moan, reaching your climax.

"How-"

Your palm slaps over his mouth. "Sshh, I'm not done."

There's a tickle at the base of your skull; you know exactly what it is. You remove yourself from him entirely.

"I didn't mean to, I'm sorry," he confesses, resisting the ongoing temptation to sneak into your mind.

"Banthashit."

Another handkerchief is pulled from a pocket, soaking up the sloppy ruin between your legs; it's tucked away fast.

You pull him by one ankle to the end of the bed, aligning his hips with the edge. In the drawers below your mattress, you pull out your strap-on with no harness and take the time to lock it in place, fingering him while you do so. He's still slick, accepting the girth of your phallus with little resistance.

Pinning him by the back of the knees, you bend him in half, fucking him slow and deep. "Stay the fuck out of my head, whoever you are while you're here."

"Yes, Master," he whines, watching your matte black cock disappear inside of himself and then withdraw entirely, over and over. Here and there, you stop railing him to lap at his hole, raw from your abuse. Each time he welcomes you back with even wider legs.

"Open your mouth, wide."

He does.

"Tongue out."

It makes your pussy drool with want, but you stay on track, untying the ribbon cutting into his dick. He sniffles, finally conquered by you. Tears are falling. His diaphragm clenches tight, letting a sob loose when your fist starts pumping him in time with your thrusts. His tongue extends further; he's figured it out.

"Fill your mouth for me like my good little boy, Ben, and don't swallow all of it," you urge him, watching his scrotum hug up close to his body, forcing the ecstasy through his shaft and lobbing onto his cheek and eyelashes. Your aim is better next time, and you ring him of every last drop before helping him suck away the stray dollops of cum from your fingers in a sticky kiss. Trading fluids back and forth, you eventually take most of his honey into your own mouth, letting gravity drag it back down to his. "Now you can," you allow him to swallow, pulling back his lip with your teeth as he does it and cradling his bulging throat beneath your hand.

His mewling is pathetic as you pull out of him and take away the warmth of your body.

"Are you grousing with me right when I'm about to finally give you a taste?" you tease him, removing the strap-on and setting it aside.

Full sentences aren't quite forming in his mouth, drunk on the afterglow. "Please," he mumbles, "oh please, let me have it, here," he helps you crawl on top of him to straddle his face, still blinking tears from his eyes. Wide and lazy, his tongue goes straight for your opening, lips sucking the watershed from yours.

You lift away on occasion to let him gasp for cool air, making him wait longer and longer for breaks as your session continues. Taking your time, you grind your clit over his mouth and nose, using all of his angles to your advantage.

"Mmm, your mouth was shaped to please," you praise him, "You're going to make me come with it, all over that sexy face of yours."

He sucks down a sob when he's given a breath, though he pulls your hips back down immediately, giving your cunt a thankful kiss, nails digging too deep as he holds you there, scared to let you go. You don't mind it. Not at all. He moans along with your climax, so invested in getting you over that hill.

"Thank you," he gasps as you roll away, overcome, bending into a fetal position.

You wrap him up in priceless sheets befitting an Alderaanian prince and curl your body around his beneath them, warming him in the marine glow of your flesh, caught somewhere in a realm of magic just outside of the limited view of a Sith or a Jedi. Combing your fingers through his raven wing hair, you hold him until he slips into a dead sleep.

In the silence of your chamber, you slip out of your tangle of bodies to your desk in the next room, snatching the gift he'd brought from earlier. Upon opening it, you see an arrangement of tiny bottles, each one a different kind of ancient. He'd gone through a lot of trouble to find these, though lucky for him he did. Not many clients you make the request to go the extra distance to honor you with completing the task. Are a scar or two because of the perils he went through for these, you wonder? Warm want is pooling in your core again, and you shake the desire away. There's work to do.

Allocating a snip of kerchief to each bottle, carefully checking your tomes for accuracy, you say the right words and make the right motions. The last one you pull is blotted with his blood; you press it against your own lips before cutting out a little red square and dropping it in the liquid. The flare burns your eyes as the glass cork seals shut unnaturally, though you don't notice him stirring in the next room. Satisfied with your work, you take a drag from your pipe and return to your bed to cradle his spent frame. Not before grabbing your silver wash bowl and towels, however.

You plant a soft kiss over his ear and whisper, "If no one else will watch after you when you do something foolish, then I will, little prince."


End file.
